How do you know my name?

Arizona Tea

2:35 a.m.: Two drunk women, a blonde and a brunette (this is important), stroll the aisles looking for snack food.

The brunette stops in front of the cold drink coolers and stares. I ask if I can help her find something.

"My friend in the car wants a pina colada," she states. "Not one with alcohol, I know I'm not in a bar."

"Well, we have an entire wall devoted to cold drinks, can you help me narrow it down a bit."

"Shit! I don't know," she says. "I'll call him."

A minute or two later, I'm on the other side of the store when she announces, "Brian, I found it. See? Penis colada."

I walk over to take a look. "It does not say penis colada."

"Yes, it does. Right there. Penis colada."

Fine. It's not productive to argue with a drunk customer.

Moments later, she and her blonde friend are at the checkout.

"Ring up my penis colada," the brunette says loudly, thinking it's just the funniest thing in the world.

"It does not say penis colada," the blonde says.

"See," I tell the brunette.

"So, you're siding with her? You're going with the blonde, eh? You like blondes, Brian?"

"No," I answer, willing to play the game since there was no one else in line. "I like gingers."

The expression on her face suddenly changes.

"How do you know my name?" the brunette asks, incredulous. "Are you a psychic?" Then spins to the blonde, "You told him my name!?"

Peppered with assault

Fightnews.com

"Then I started hitting her," the young woman relates over her cell phone. Everyone in the store overhears.

"She pulled my hair, so I grabbed a bunch of her hair and pulled her down to the floor. Then I got on top of her and started hitting her over and over again.

"It was awesome."

No. It was assault.

Consider me edified

Photo by Robyn Lee

4:14 a.m.: Four people, a middle-aged couple and a younger couple (I'm guessing the older couple's daughter and the daughter's boyfriend), enter the store and disperse.

The younger woman is staggering and belligerent, yelling obscenities at the boyfriend.

The older woman grabs a bag of nacho chips and inspects it much too closely.

The older man walks up to the counter with a bottle of water and a pack of gum and turns, waiting for the others.

"Drunk," he says to me, gesturing to the others and making a hang loose sign with his right hand and drinking from his thumb.

"Yeah, " I say. "We see that a lot."

The younger couple approach the counter. She's wearing a dress that is much too high, and he's wearing jeans that are much too low.

"Brian!" the young man blurts. "Girl!"

"Consider me edified," I respond.

The older woman slides a bag of tortilla chips and a cup of nacho cheese onto the counter. In the process, she nearly tips over a donut display near the register.

The older man pays for all of the snacks and tries to hustle everyone out, but the older woman has a question.

"Canni get hanaaaenoes?" she asks me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't understand."

"Hnaaaenoes? Can I getem withis?"

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand what you're saying."

"I 'pligize. I'm drunk."

"Yes. I realize that."

"Halaanepeos?"

"Jalapenos?"

"Yes!"

"Sure, they're right there on the condiment counter. Help yourself."

The older man stands in the door and watches his wife navigate her way to the condiment counter. Then he looks my way and makes that same tippling motion with his hand.

Hang loose, Dude.

One Adam-12, One Adam-12, see the man

Photo by Scott Davidson

3:15 a.m.: There are no customers in the store, so I prepare to do my outside chores: Hauling out trash, recycling cardboard, sweeping up the parking lot, etc.

But, there's a car parked next to one of the pumps, and I don't dare leave the store unoccupied until the car leaves.

3:30 a.m: The car is still there. Lights on. Just sitting there. I've seen no one go in or out. No one pumped any gas.

3:35 a.m.: I stand in the window in full view of the suspicious car (a beat up, white Ford Probe) and pretend to dial the police. This works with most of the people who like to smoke pot in the parking lot. The car does not move.

3:40 a.m.: Still no movement of the car or its occupant(s). Since it's dark, and the cars' lights are on, I can't even tell if someone is in it.

3:45 a.m.: I call the police non-emergency line and ask if an officer could drive through the lot, maybe scare the car's occupants off.

3:50 a.m.: A squad car pulls up behind the Probe and an officer, one of the store's regulars, walks up to the driver's window and shines a flashlight inside.

3:55 a.m.: A second squad car pulls up. The second officer helps a young woman out of the driver's door of the Probe and the sobriety dance begins: Hold your arms straight out and touch your nose, follow the light with your eyes, stand on one foot ...

From my perspective (passing by as I took out the trash), I couldn't tell how the nose or the light test went, but I did see that "stand on one foot" was not happening.

4:10 a.m.: The woman is helped into the back seat of one of the squad cars while the other officer removes the Probe's plates and moves the beater to an out-of-the-way spot in the lot.

4:15 a.m.: The first officer on the scene comes in and asks me a few questions: name, phone, address, how long the car was in the lot, etc.

"She says she'll take care of the car when she gets out of jail, but that might be a while," the cop says. "She blew a two-one, and it's her second DUI."

Bummer for her ... just because I had to take out the trash.

Checking on the twins

Photo by Misha Popovikj

1:15 a.m.: A woman joins the line at the checkout and I notice that she keeps looking down into her shirt.

I don't know if it's the switch to summer weather or simply the fashion of the times, but many of the women who've come into the store lately seem preoccupied with their breasts. It's amazing the number of women who have no compunctions about adjusting the ladies while fueling their cars, waiting to pay for Marlboro Lights or checking out the beef jerky.

I even had one woman who had Lil Wayne in her top ... she carried her cell phone in her brassiere.

But this woman is different. She isn't primping or plumping, she's peering.

Just as it was time for me to ring up her snacks, she says, "Oh, the blood stain is gone."

"Whoa!" I say, holding up my hands.

"No. No," she laughs. "I work at a nursing home, and one of the patients had a bloody nose and it got everywhere."

"I was truly frightened there for a moment."

"No, my boob's not hemorrhaging or anything," she laughs again.

Good to know. All I've got for medical emergencies are three-inch Band-Aids.

Wanted man

 Photo by Loren Javier

4:15 a.m.: A state trooper comes into the store and asks if I'd seen an out-of-breath man come in. Someone who wasn't driving a car.

When I say I hadn't, the trooper calls me out to his squad car and shows me a mug shot of a white man in his early 30s with stringy, dark brown hair and a pudgy face.

"No, I haven't seen him," I tell the trooper.

"Well, if you do, be sure to give us a call," the trooper answers.

"What did he do?" I ask.

"He ran away from something," he answers in the way that the authorities answer questions without answering.

About 15 minutes later, a city police officer comes in, asking the same questions.

Again, I say I hadn't seen the man. I tell him a trooper had also just been in.

"What did he do?" I ask.

"He fled from an incident," the officer answers without really answering.

The next morning, three different police officers come in for their free coffee.

"Hey, did you guys catch the fella you were looking for last night?" I ask.

"No, we quit looking for him," one of the officers replies.

"Gave you the slip?"

"No. We found out that he owned the property that he destroyed," the same officer says. "There's no law against wrecking your own shit."

"Why did he run?" I ask.

"He's on probation," one of the other officers answers, as if that constitutes actual cause and effect.

"I guess it's his prerogative to break his own stuff," I say.

"That's what happens when you mix drunk and stupid," one of the officers says. "But I bet he's regretting it this morning."

Wedding romance

2:30 a.m.: A minivan pulls up and three couples in formal attire spill out. I'm assuming they've come from a wedding

Two of the pairs head to the restrooms, which are along their own hallway at the back of the store. The other couple peruse the snack aisle.

While one of the couples waits in the hallway for an available restroom, the two start making out.

Eww.

C'mon people, you're within spitting distance of convenience store toilets!

Oh, well. I guess the moment was convenient.

When you gonna eat that pickle?

12:45 a.m.: Two young men come in and grab a couple of energy drinks. As one is paying for a Monster, the other grabs one of the bagged pickles we sell.

"Whoa! It's hard. There's actually a pickle in there," he says.

"Maybe that's why it's called 'Pickle in a Pouch,'" I answer.

"Who would buy that? That's crazy."

"Well, we sell a lot of them," I say. "We also sell a lot of hard-boiled eggs in a bag. And I can't even imagine eating one of those."

"Have you ever had one of the pickles?" he asks. "Are they any good."

"No idea. I've never had the urge."

"You should buy it," the other guy goads. "C'mon. It's only 99 cents."

"No way," the first one says, and they head for the door.

I see them talking and laughing outside the door, when suddenly they both return.

"He's gonna buy me a pickle," the one says.

"You want regular or hot and spicy?" I ask. "Either way, I'd get one of the ones in the refrigerated section. These ones up the counter scare me a little, though I'm sure they're fine being vacuum-sealed and all."

"I better get the spicy one since he's buying," the one says.

"You have to drink it right here," the buyer declares, so he (pointing to me) can see if they're any good."

"Drink it?" I ask. "You don't drink it. You eat the pickle."

"But you've got to drink the juice!" the buyer declares.

"Nasty," I say. "Do what you want, but take it outside so you don't spill or barf on the floor."

The two leave, and I see the one taking a bite out of the pickle. He gives a thumbs up through the window, but I don't see him drink the juice.

There was no vomit in the parking lot the next morning.

Bad boy bulldog

Photo by Angel Gomila

To the guy outside the door at 1:30 a.m. with the slobbery bulldog on a leash:

No. It's not funny that you goad your dog into barking and lunging at all of the customers coming in.

No. It's not funny when you tease your dog with a package of firewood, which the canine tries its best to destroy.

No. It's not funny when your crazy wife comes in, rounds up about 20 items, then turns away from the cash register saying, "You know, I've changed my mind. I'm not buying any of this."

No. It's not funny that after your wife leaves the store and takes the dog to the car, you storm in and ask loudly why we don't have any breakfast sandwiches prepared.

Yes. It's funny that when you leave the store, you'll have to get into a car with a worked-up, slobbery beast and a schizo bride.

Have a nice night!

"I like to experiment"

Photo by Horia Varlan on Flickr

2:15 a.m.: A woman that my wife would describe as "wholly unattractive" is waiting to check out, a cell phone plastered to her face.

I hear one side of the conversation:

"Well, I wasn't with HIM!"

"I don't cheat. But when I'm with My Man, I like to experiment."

"It was dark! You'd have to really be paying attention."

Hello! You're not with Your Man, you're standing in front of a person who just wants to finish mopping the bathrooms. The word "experiment" brings to mind Mary Shelley, not D.H. Lawrence.

You're pretty

2:45 a.m.: An attractive young woman walks up to my counter to pay for some snacks. During the exchange, another attractive young woman walks up to my co-worker's cash register.

"You're pretty," the woman at my counter says to the other woman. "What's your name? Oh, no. I don't need to ask that. It's just that you have a natural beauty, you know."

The other woman offers a hesitant, "thank you."

"Yes, some of us are just born with it," I add, tousling my hair and flashing a grin.

The woman at my counter ignores the joke and continues.

"No, it's just that some of us have to work at it -- go to the gym, eat salad, use makeup."

"I'm not wearing any tonight," my (male) co-worker cracks.

"I could be talking about me," she answers, again with little humor.

The woman at the other counter takes this opportunity to sidle toward the door.

"No, really. You're beautiful," the first woman calls out. "Kudos."

Kudos? Isn't that a granola bar?

The power of the corn dog

2:45 a.m.: A dark orange short bus rolls into the parking lot and seven drunk people pour out. All but one head to the bathrooms.

The one, a good-looking fella in his mid-20s, comes up to the counter and asks for a can of Copenhagen.

"$3.63? That's a small price to pay for lip cancer," he says and laughs.

He then tells me he blames his father for his tobacco habit.

"Grew up on the farm. Dad chewed, and he started giving me snuff when I was 13."

He says he's since quit — at least on weekdays.

"But when I'm out drinking, I just feel like I have to have a chew."

"How much are those flowers?" he asks in the non sequitur I've come to expect from late-night customers.

"I'm not sure," I answer as I head over to the display.

"Think if I gave one to that girl over there she'd grant me sexual favors?" he asks (I apologize for refining the language a bit here).

"I don't know," I say. "It's $2.99 for a single rose. I think you might have better luck with a hot dog."

As the woman approaches, he suddenly stands up straight.

"Hey, Baby, can I buy you a hot dog?"

"Nah," she answers. "But I could really go for a corn dog."

"We don't have any out right now," I say. "But I can pop a couple in the oven. They're on sale, two for $1.50."

"No. We don't have time for that," the woman says.

"It'll only take five minutes," I explain.

"No. We don't have five minutes," she says.

The guy follows the girl out the door, then looks back and shrugs.

"Sorry, Man." I say. "I was pitching for ya."

Avoid the 'roids

"Look at that! And, I'm clean!" the customer boasted as he peeled up his right sleeve to expose a bicep.

"Seventeen and a half inches," he said, flexing to pull his pasty white skin taut over his upper arm. "And I've been off anabolics for two years."

"Let me tell you, if I punched you with this, it would sting."

I backed up a couple of steps.

Then he spent the next three minutes saying how the steroids had caused wild mood swings that probably led to his girlfriend cheating on him. But, now he had left "that bitch."

Seems to me the old comic book ads showed the muscle man getting the girl.

It was just a joke

3:10 a.m. "Are you OK?"

I was in the back room when I heard scuffling, then a series of thuds, coming from the hallway to the bathroom.

I ran out to see two men sprawled on the floor and another trying to lift the others up. Two-liter bottles of pop were strewn about, one with a broken top that was spraying the men with a fine mist .

"Of course, I'm OK," the drunkest of the three sputters as the puddle of Sprite broadens beneath him. "What kind of fuckin' question is that!?"

"It was just a joke, man," the standing man says.

"Don't worry about the pop. I'll take care of that," I say. "Just make sure your friend is OK."

The drunkest goes into the bathroom and the other two grab some drinks and head out to the car."

As I'm mopping up the floor, I can hear a high-pitched wailing from the restroom. I'm just about to call 911, when the drunkest emerges from the bathroom, apparently singing along with the Travis Tritt song on the PA.

He spends the next five minutes trying to put a bratwurst on a bun and cover it with ketchup without losing his balance and hitting the floor a second time.

He finally  pays for his dog and a drink and exits the store, staggering into the parking lot with a dark circle of what I hope was Sprite on the seat of his pants.

Later, while policing the parking lot, I discover the brat and bun. Luckily, pre-ingested.

Now, that's a party!

2:45 a.m.: "Hello, how are you tonight?"

"Terrible. I've been stole from, swore at, spit on, punched and kicked today."

"Sounds like a party!"

"I'm a cabbie!"

Keep smiling

Photo by Peyri Herrera

11:30 p.m.: Visited one of our sister stores to pick up milk and bananas.

The guy behind the counter didn't say hello, didn't smile ... heck, he didn't even speak. He just rang up my stuff and held out his hand.

Didn't he see the training videos?

No matter how dirty, obnoxious, drunk or stupid the customer is, I always smile and say hello.

"Come back and see us again ...

... Dickwad."

Womb bomb

2:30 a.m.: Four VERY drunk women walk in. They wander a bit, then grab drinks and snacks and come to the counter.

The first two pay for their coffees and chips and stagger out the door.

The third can barely stand.

"Egg salad and a cuppa joe," she announces to the entire store as I count out her change.

Then she waits as the last woman makes her purchases.

"I think my vagina's going to explode," the egg salad woman says loudly to the straggler.

To which I reply, "Miss, I think you had better take that outside."

"Brian, Brian, Brian," she says after squinting at my name tag. "Keep it classy, Brian."

With a capital K.

Any color but yellow

Smokers don't like yellow lighters.

When someone buys cigarettes, we're always supposed to ask if they need matches or a lighter. If they want a lighter, we ask what color.

Invariably, the answer is, "Any color but yellow."

I asked some of the store old-timers about the color bias.

"Yellow lighters are bad luck. Everyone knows that."

A bit of Googling reveals that both white and yellow lighters are cursed. Some say Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix both died with white (or yellow) lighters in their pockets. Others say that the vast majority of the people busted on "Cops" have yellow lighters on their person (but no shirt?).

All I know is that Bic sends us a box of lighters with the same number of each color. That might explain the box filled with yellow rejects under the counter.

What are we, KFC?

1:30 a.m.: "Do you guys serve fried chicken?" 

 Um ... no.

Plunging necklines and FM shoes

11:30 p.m.: Saturday night at the store started with a parade of women dressed like they were headed to a dress-like-a-hooker party.

Wait ... you don't think?

'What are you laughing at?'

3:45 a.m.: A young couple stroll in and spend a few minutes wandering the aisles. The man walks up to the register and purchases a deck of cards. The woman walks up behind him and asks me:

"Sir, do you sell condoms?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Sorry about that."

The man was heading toward the door, snickering as he went.

The woman spun around and said: "What are you laughing at? This isn't good news for you, ya know."

Patience has its price

12:30 a.m.: "The coffee is comped because I had to wait."

Really? OK. I wasn't about to argue.

The woman had a cup carrier with three large glasses filled with ice, a 24-ounce coffee and a four-pack of donuts for a buck.

OK, I guess that'll be one dollar.

She proceeded to pay with three dimes, five nickels and 55 pennies, then apologized to the four sets of rolling eyes behind her. The set in front of her did not roll.

A touch of fear

4:10 a.m.: The first customer who actually made me jittery.

It was likely due to the fact that he couldn't stay still, like everything was imperative and he had a place to be RIGHT NOW! If I didn't move fast enough, he looked like he might explode.

I've never seen anyone that tweaked before.

He looked very ... unpredictable.

He had hard living written all over him: multiple tattoos, a dirty leather jacket, filthy jeans, missing teeth and a road map of wrinkles that confused his age.

There were no threats, no glares. I don't think he even said a word. He was vacant and kinetic at the same time.

I couldn't wait until he'd left.

Drive-off doofus

To  the guy who filled his tank, then drove off without paying: When we  say, "Go ahead on Pump 12," we also record your license plate number. 

Expect a man in blue to knock on your door soon.

Double gloves required

Discovered a used condom while policing the parking lot. Now THAT'S what I call desperate lovin'.